A Delicate Wealth
by L.Bronte
Summary: Before Thorin set out on a journey to reclaim the homeland of his people, he slaved to provide for those who escaped the great fire-drake, Smaug. In a town far from the dwarven settlements in Dunland, a prince of the Durin's Folk discovered that true wealth is far more than pieces of silver and gold.
1. Chapter 1: Thorin

**CHAPTER 1**

_Thorin_

_The Vagrant Prince_, the villagers had taken to calling him. The vile title crept through the thick air when his back was turned, when his head was bowed. It was a slick and oily moniker which he despised all the more for its truthfulness.

Thorin II, son of King Thráin II and the grandson of the fallen King Thrór, drew his hammer back and brought it down with required force upon the beginnings of a wrought iron horseshoe. He worked at it studiously, though the task was quite simple. Four shoes for the daughter of the Mayor of Alürhim—Or more likely, her freshly cut gelding.

He cast his eyes down deliberately, as a few gawkers had turned into a crowd, and soon the street before the smithy had filled with onlookers. Two weeks had passed before the rumors had spread, and Thorin realized with an empty triumph that it had certainly taken the people of Alürhim the longest to discover his identity.

He was well prepared for what would come next, the merchant who owned the smith would receive complaints about the stir his new blacksmith was causing, and he would be asked to leave. If the proprietor was determined to keep him, there would always be a few villagers who sought to force him out. It upset the everyday comfort of a place whenever he was found out. When there was no cause for the termination of his employment, he was told that in order to keep the peace, he best be on his way.

When the near silent breaths of good-natured curiosity and shuffles of anticipation grew to whispers of concern and stumbling forward to capture a glimpse of the dwarf prince, Thorin calmly rested his metalwork upon the anvil. He looked up sternly at the apprentice he had been instructing only moments before, and then he heard it.

"_The Vagrant Prince."_

"Was it you?" He asked the boy quietly.

The boy shot him a frightful glance, and backed away.

Thorin advanced on him and growled low at the apprentice, "Know well that you have robbed food from the bellies of dwarven children and clothing from the mothers who bore them. I would not wish such malice upon my bitterest enemy."

A moment later he had thrown off his leather apron, and marched toward the crowd. He cast a reproachful eye across the gathering of villagers as they parted. The prince would slave to earn a better life for his people, but he refused to beg in order to remain where he was unwanted.

"He's an odd, ugly creature," he heard a young child mutter.

"Shh!" The mother had scolded him. "He is a dwarf prince, show respect."

Thorin felt due relief at these words, until a man beside her spoke boisterously, "Prince of what?" There was an equal smattering of laughter and censure at the question.

He schooled his anger as thoughts of Erebor flooded his mind. His home under the mountain. Visions of its golden splendor flashed before his eyes, and a deep ache echoed through his heart. This in turn brought remembrances of the life that had once reverberated within Erebor's countless caverns. Now the great mountain kingdom was barren, infected by death and fire and greed.

When he was clear of the crowd, Thorin stared back at the smithy's and beheld the apprentice who had exposed him. The boy's eyes were red and his chin quivered pathetically. Thorin raised his head high, and with a disdainful scoff turned his back to Alürhim. Where the prince was concerned, the village had been razed from the map of Middle-earth the moment his pony's hooves galloped across its outermost cornfield.

* * *

It was already dark when Thorin returned to the settlements in Dunland, which had been established for nearly three years. If ever small huts could be afforded and built, they were reserved for the children and new mothers among the Erebor refuges. Crude tents and straw-stuffed bed rolls were most common amongst the people. Though the dwarves were master builders, it was all but impossible to acquire the proper materials and tools.

The Prince of Durin's Folk occupied a tent that was larger than many of the structures nearby. His father had insisted that it should befit his station. Thorin believed there was a single station for all who resided in the settlements, and it was an abominably low position indeed.

Their people were little more than paupers and Thráin II was preparing to reclaim Moria from the Orcs. The prince could not deny that he thirsted for vengeance after the murder and defilement of his grandfather, Thrór. However, there could not have been a more inopportune time to raise the flag of war. There could be no army without the help of the dwarves from the Iron Hills, and he knew well they would never consent to the massacre that awaited them in Moria. Thorin shook these thoughts from his head.

He lashed his pony's reigns to the hitching post beside his tent, and removed his saddle. A strong commotion was erupting from within his tent; Thorin sighed as he tossed the entrance open. Balin was inside with a young dwarf, who was bleeding from the nose. The young dwarf was laid out in one of the two roughly made beds that overtook most of the space in Thorin's dwelling. The beds functioned as an overflow from the inadequate infirmary just across the road.

The boy's eyes lit up and he attempted to bow, though Balin's hands were inspecting his nose. He let out a terrible whimper, and was still.

"What's happened to this one?" Thorin asked Balin as he unloaded his pack from his shoulder.

Balin sighed. "He went looking for work in Alürhim, and a few human lads beat him rather cruelly—Galri, I shall have to set it," Balin told the youth in a very serious manner.

"That town has been nothing but trouble for our people. I would not step foot on its soil again if it were to spare my life. An apprentice at the blacksmith spread my origins around town, he caused another scene. It must have been after Galri was attacked. They most likely assumed I would demand satisfaction for his beating." Thorin placed his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Had I known, I certainly would have."

In the moment that Thorin had distracted the boy, Balin shifted his broken nose into place. Galri cried out and blood sprayed from his nose and across the bed.

"That horrid place should be burnt to the ground," Galri seethed, and fell back against the bed.

A new pain gripped his jaw, and he opened his eyes to see his prince scowling at him. "We have witnessed enough fire and destruction in our time, and we should pray it never finds another host! Those men are fools, but I do not wish them dead for it!"

"Forgive me, Your Highness. I am upset and in pain," Galri pleaded.

"There is nothing to forgive, I understand your reasons for speaking thusly. They have often been my own." Thorin removed his bed roll and blanket from his pack and laid them out to the right of the unoccupied bed. He lowered himself down, removed his tunic and took cover beneath his blanket.

A dwarf and his pregnant wife burst through the tent flaps. She was keening furiously and her husband was in a panic.

"The midwife's hut is full up, I beg that you allow one of her daughters to deliver my child here!" The dwarf implored Balin as he wrung his beard in his hands. His wife stumbled to support herself against the empty bed.

Balin shot Thorin a questioning glance when he stood up from his bed roll.

The father-to-be bowed his head. "Your Highness."

"You have my blessing," Thorin declared and shook the dwarf's hand. He then pulled at a knot in the ceiling. A canvas wall unfurled and created a divide between the childbirth and Thorin's place of rest. He heard the midwife's daughter enter, and then Balin ushering Galri from the tent.

As he rested, the sounds of an infant dwarf entering the world roared through his ears. Another dwarven mouth that he could not provide for. The wails of this baby would transform into the weeping of a child, and eventually the empty sorrow of an adult. Thorin longed to rest well into the following day, but when he heard the soft hiccuping of the infant as it finally quieted, he realized what he must do.

* * *

Before the sun rose the next morning, Thorin stood over a basin of water with his beard in his hand. He peered down and stroked it several times. The length of a beard translated into a great sense of pride for the dwarven people. The particularly fine beard that Thorin had grown over time was often attributed to being a descendant of Durin. In his fist, he held his last vestiges of royal pride. With a flick of his dagger, most of his beard came away in his hand.

A rattling breath escaped him as he stared at his reflection on the surface of the water, and only then did he fully comprehend what he had done. It was a lesson in overcoming his pride, he had removed a vain emblem that represented a his former lifetime as a prince. "_Prince of what?_" He asked himself. Thorin tidied what was left of his beard with a pair of shears, and prepared himself for the day ahead.

He took his pony south along the main road. He passed Alürhim, and the borders of Dunland altogether. He rode without a destination, until fields became sparse, and he continued on until they began once more. A marker on the road caught his attention and he brought his pony to a halt.

"Carradale," he read aloud. The town was settled to the right of the road, and he could see it was rather large. Several buildings were made of stone and a few were more than one story tall. He dismounted his pony, and ventured into the town.

Few people were on the street, and he was thankful for it. Those who were passing took little notice of him. One woman stared until he glanced her way, and then she continued about her business. He spied an inn that was situated in the center of town, and was hopeful the keeper would know of labor that might be required—no matter the race of the man who performed the work.

He hitched his pony to a post, and lifted his chin as he made to enter the building. Apprehension seized him before he pushed the door open. _No one shall want a smug worker, dwarf or human,_ he thought to himself. After a moment of calm, he looked to the ground, and entered the inn.

Smoke filled his senses the moment the door had closed. An open doorway to his right led to a tavern, and to the left there were stairs. The keeper's counter was abandoned; Thorin could see a rack of keys and a few notices nailed into the wood.

"Sir, if ya lookin' fer a room, you'll 'ave to come in'ta the lodge o'er 'ere!" A gruff-voiced woman called out to him.

He slowly crossed into the "lodge," as she had referred to it. The woman was installed behind a counter that stretched the length of the room, and behind her there were libations from floor to ceiling. She was tall, buxom, and quite overweight. Gray hairs entwined with the few brown locks that remained on her head. Two men sat at the long bar, and four others were scattered throughout the room at wooden tables.

"Bless it!" She proclaimed at the sight of him. "A dwarf in our lodge, Mr. Whemp," the woman went on, calling out to a man sifting through parchment at one of the tables.

Mr. Whemp looked up at Thorin, raised his eyebrows, and went back to examining his papers. "_Hmph_, I suppose," was all the response Mrs. Whemp received from him.

"What brings ya 'ere, mister dwarf? Yer a long way from Dunland, do ya know that?" Mrs. Whemp inquired. She filled a flagon full of ale and placed it before a man at the bar.

"My thanks, Kath." The man turned to Thorin and waited for him to respond.

"Did ya 'ear me, dwarf!" Kath Whemp screeched at him. Thorin could only guess that what had once been a lilting voice had eventually deteriorated into the banshee holler he heard now.

"... Please, ma'am," he began respectfully. "I do come from the dwarven settlements in Dunland. I seek labor in Carradale. Perhaps you or your husband may know of such work?" Thorin kept his head slightly bowed, and watched Mrs. Whemp carefully.

Her tongue loudly clicked against the roof of her mouth. "Ya came all the way to Carradale fer labor?"

"I did, so that others might find work closer to... to home," he managed to explain. Once the words were spoken, he realized they were also true.

"The fields are full, if I correctly recall," Mr. Whemp offered, without turning from his occupation.

"Since Midra turned sixteen, we've 'ad no need for 'elp at the inn." Mrs. Whemp shrugged her shoulders at him. "I wish there was more we could do," she told him sincerely.

Thorin hung his head low, but recovered quickly. "You have my gratitude, either way. Many would not have allowed me to cross their threshold." He made his way to the exit.

A man near the doorway cleared his throat and held up a hand toward Thorin.

"You wouldn't happen to have any craft with blacksmithing, would you?" The man casually wondered.

"It is my speciality, sir. Black, white and silversmithing. Do you know of a position in town?" In spite of himself, Thorin hoped there was something.

The man took in a puff from the pipe he was holding. "I operate a smithy on the outskirts of town. My last blacksmith was overtaken by thieves on the road. He'll never hold a hammer again after what they did to him. I hear tell that dwarves are master smiths," the man paused as if he expected a reply.

"Meaning no disrespect—Dwarves are far and away the most efficient and skilled of all smiths," Thorin assured him.

The man's large brown eyes surveyed the dwarf before him from head to toe, and he nodded before he got to his feet. Thorin had to stare upward, for the man stood at least two heads above him.

"I am Idren Elarith, a merchant by trade. I reside in Carradale, and wear many hats here. And you are?" Idren motioned to him with his pipe.

"My name is Dathir," Thorin lied. "I am a member of the Durin's Folk who have settled in Dunland." It was reasonable for Thorin to assume that no one in Carradale would recognize his face.

Idren shook his head. "A horrible tragedy, that drake. And to think, those good-for-nothing elves stood by as dwarf and human alike were slaughtered." An intense expression of hatred overcame Idren's face as he spoke of the elves.

This was a sentiment that Thorin had shared as he watched Thranduil turn away from the horror while the survivors looked on. It was difficult not to take a liking to a human who admired dwarven smithing and despised the elven race. The left corner of Thorin's lips lifted in a small grin.

"I'll try you out, Dathir. If you can prove yourself useful within a week, I shall take you on. If not, you'll have your wages and be on your way," Idren offered. He affected an enterprising stare, and awaited Thorin's acceptance.

"You have yourself a blacksmith, Master Elarith," Thorin announced, and extended his hand.

Idren shook it readily. "Would it be at all possible that you might begin today? At the very least you could tour the shop, and acquaint yourself. Several orders are well past due, and I'm beginning to hear from clients. If you would rather return tomorrow, I understand."

"If there is work to be done, I shall begin today." Thorin lamented that he would have to return to Dunland in darkness each night, and ride early to reach Carradale in the morning. His distress ebbed when he considered his fortune at having found a new position so quickly.

"Come, Dathir, we'll away to the smithy, and along the walk, I shall recount the orders to you. There are specifications for each in the shop, however, it will do no harm to prepare you for what lies ahead." Idren turned hastily on his heel, and strode to the door. Thorin followed closely behind.

They were nearly trampled as a young woman came bounding down the stairs to the left of the entrance. She was a plump girl, whose brown hair flew forward over her shoulders when she braced herself on the bottom of the railing. Her eyes grew large when they fell upon Thorin. She looked nervous and snapped her eyes toward Idren.

"Where are you off to at such speed, Miss Midra?" Idren asked the girl, who had begun to pant.

"I've promised Sigrid I would come to visit her today. I have offered to help her with chores, so that we might go to the pond while it is still light. If that is agreeable, sir?" Midra submissively bowed her head.

Idren glanced at Thorin and back to Midra. "I don't see why not. Go on, I am sure that Sigrid is marvelously bored in the cotton field."

"Thank you, sir!" Midra called as she sprinted out the door.

Idren and Thorin stepped out after her, and watched Midra skip off into the distance.

"Miss Whemp is a dear girl. I pray that her influence will bring about more deference in my Sigrid." Idren started west at a brisk pace. Thorin unhitched his pony and hurried after. Idren spoke in detail about the overdue orders, and posed a few short questions to Thorin.

When they arrived at the smithy, Thorin was pleased to see that it was both large and well outfitted. When the tour was concluded Idren left Thorin to begin his work. Many of the tasks were rather straightforward and he decided to spend the remainder of the day completing all of the simplest metalwork.

Hours had passed without his notice and suddenly the clanking of the hammer was overtaken by the groaning hunger in his stomach. He gathered his pack and removed a few strips of dried rabbit meat and a fourth of a cram biscuit. During his meal, which he took upon a small table and stool near a window on the other side of the shop, he imagined the fine food that elves and the people Dale had once traded to them. Now he was fortunate to have any meat, no matter that it was scrap from a rabbit he had caught himself weeks ago.

Night had fallen upon Carradale, and it had grown very quiet and still when he quit his work. The shop was far away from town, and he did not fear bothering the residents. Though he noticed that if he exited the smithy, he could walk a few paces and stand at Idren Elarith's front door. He had asked Idren if he would mind him working well into the night. Idren had appeared quite pleased, and assured him that he was welcome to remain in the shop overnight.

As he tore a hunk of rabbit away with his teeth, he heard a distant voice cry, "Oh, look!"

His head snapped toward the sound and he saw two silhouetted figures in the second story window of Idren's home. The figure to the right had its hand outstretched, pointing directly at him. When it saw him look, it ducked down in fright. The second figure did not move for a some time, and when it did, it was to wave slowly down at Thorin.

In response he scoffed and returned to his meal. A moment later he glanced back up and the figure had gone.


	2. Chapter 2: Sigrid

**Chapter 2**

_Sigrid_

A tremendously loud yawn escaped Sigrid as she awoke to the cock crowing on a fine summer morning. She rubbed at her eyes with the heel of her hand and swung her feet to the ground. The glossy white rabbit skin rug felt plush and silken as she caressed it with her feet. It had been a gift from her father the day before. Though she adored it for its softness, she had had a dream that the rabbits came alive in the night.

She finished her dawdling and dressed for the day in a shabby white underdress and her field skirt. There would be harvesting to do after breakfast. After tying on a pair of work boots, she carefully descended the stairs and entered the kitchen.

While her elder brother and father still slept, she began preparing their breakfast. It was the routine that had occurred in the Elarith home for the past five years. Sigrid was content to do it, though she was not entirely convinced she was meant to be an early riser.

The moment that she laid a thick cut of bacon across a skillet, it sizzled and a mouth-watering aroma filled the air. It did not stir her family, and before she could contain herself, three strips had escaped the skillet and found themselves in her stomach. After the bacon, she fried eggs and removed rolls she had baked the night before from the pantry.

When everything was prepared, she rang the breakfast bell. Her brother, Evindur, rushed into the kitchen at the sound.

"Siri-dear, that's smells amazing!" Evindur told her, and then he reached for a slice of bacon.

Sigrid swatted his hand away.

"You'll sit at the table and wait for father. How could you think of eating without papa?" She chastised him.

"Forgive me."

When he turned away toward the table, Sigrid stifled a laugh. She took a seat across from her brother and they awaited their father.

"Shall you go hunting today?"

"I'm heading out with the Harrington brothers after breakfast. We'll be after stag today and tomorrow. What trouble will you get up to?" Evindur responded.

"I shall begin picking my cotton for papa's festival cloak today. Midra and I may go to Grimmer's Pond later, but we shall see. No trouble for me on this day, I fear." Sigrid sighed and slumped down in her chair.

Idren Elarith entered the dining room and patted his daughter on the head. "I have never known you not to seek out mischief, Siri-dear."

Evindur snickered and Sigrid sneered back at him.

Their father only laughed and took his seat at the head of the table. He dug into his breakfast immediately, and his children followed suit.

In the midst of their meal, Idren paused. "I shall be in town today on business. Sigrid, if you should need me, you'll find me at the inn. I'll be off directly. Tonight, I think, we will need to have a discussion. Perhaps it is best that Midra does not stay the night."

Sigrid halted chewing her mouthful of egg. "Of course, father. Midra and I shall go to the pond, and then I'll walk her home. Then we will talk."

"That's settled." Idren stood and dropped his napkin on his plate. "Good hunting, Evindur." He kissed the top of his daughter's head. "Wear your gardening veil, Siri-dear. Your face is looking dusky as it is."

After grabbing his pipe, Idren left behind a chuckling son and a seething daughter.

"You must have really put your foot in it somehow," Evindur teased.

Sigrid kicked at him under the table and glanced at her father's empty place. She did not need her brother to tell her that whatever her father wanted to discuss would not be pleasant. Then she noticed a piece of bacon remaining on her father's plate.

She snatched it up and grinned at her brother. "Want to split it?"

He nodded and stretched out his hand.

Sigrid stuffed the entire strip in her mouth and made a face of delight.

"You little wretch! I hope father gives you the switch!" He half-joked.

"Well, I hope your stags have worms," Sigrid told him airily and flipped her dark blonde hair behind her shoulder. She rose and took her dishes to the wash tub.

Evindur flung his dishes on top of hers and stomped away to his room. He returned to the kitchen dressed, holding his bow and his hunting rucksack.

"Be careful if you go to the pond, especially once the sun starts to set. There are thieves about and the lads from town have been up to no good this summer." Evindur rested his bow against the wall, and kissed his sister's forehead. "Don't give father any sass while I'm gone. If you treat him with respect, he may listen to you. Don't pout, you're getting too old for that."

She glowered at him. "You know what it's about, don't you? He's told you!"

"I overheard him at the inn yesterday. He was not on his usual business, and I think he's due to strike a bargain today. Since you've gotten yourself in such a mood, I can only guess that you know what's coming." Evindur sighed, he knew very well what his father was up to.

"It will be just like with Carrina, won't it?" She asked him in dread.

He placed his hands on her shoulders and she stared up at him.

"It will not be like that. Keep your wits about you. If you don't go into a temper, father will hear you out. Now, I must be going." He pecked her forehead once more and left the house.

Only Sigrid remained, sulking to herself in the kitchen. With a last glance at her father's setting, she thrust it off of the table and the dishes clattered to the floor. After a moment, she begrudgingly tidied her mess and finished washing all of the breakfast dishes.

When she had calmed down, she ventured out to her small cotton field. For the most part, she had been looking after it by herself for the past four years. It did not yield a great deal of cotton, certainly not enough to be sold for profit. Each year, from the fibers she picked, she would spin yarn, and then weave her father's festival cloak.

It had become a tradition that every autumn at the Carradale Festival, when Idren finished a small speech he prepared as the town's acting mayor, Sigrid would present him with a new cloak. The cloak from the year before would then be handed down to her brother. Idren encouraged the hobby, as it kept her quiet and content for long periods of time. He often told her she spent all of her patience in one place, and had no more left for any other tasks.

This year her father had given her a thick spool of golden thread to use for the embroidery. It would be the finest cloak she had ever made for him. _And the last,_ she thought bitterly.

Though she was angry with her father, it would not stop her from preparing his cloak, because in truth, her love was far greater than her anger. She entered her small field shed and placed the cotton bag's strap over her shoulder, then pulled on a pair of leather gloves. As she was leaving the shed, her fingers alighted on her gardening veil, but she drew them back and entered the field with the sun shining on her face.

* * *

Several hours later, as she hauled her third sackful of cotton into the shed, Sigrid saw Midra racing toward her over the field. She threw off her gloves and dashed out to meet her friend.

"Midra, you made it!" She cried, and embraced her tightly.

Midra leaned down to catch her breath. Sigrid could tell she was excited by the way her hands were flailing. When the girl finally straightened, her bosom was still heaving.

"You will not believe what I just saw!" Midra declared. A wide smile burst across her face.

"It'll have to wait. Let's have a race to the pond, shall we?" Sigrid exclaimed and then sprinted away from her friend.

"That's not fair! You're too fast for me to catch you up!" Midra called after her.

"I know!" Sigrid shouted back over her shoulder. "That's the fun part!"

Sigrid had swiftly reached Grimmer's Pond. She stripped down to her shift and leapt into the water. Midra arrived a few minutes later with a sour look on her face.

"Now, what had you so excited?" Sigrid asked as she glided toward her.

Midra turned her nose up. "I don't think you deserve to know after how you've just treated me."

"Forgive me, Midra. I have been in a nasty mood all day." She paused as Midra was getting out of her dress. "I think my father has plans to marry me off."

With her dress still bunched around her head, Midra gasped.

"No, he wouldn't. Not when he knows how you feel after your sister's marriage." Midra finished undressing and tiptoed into the water.

"Evindur heard him discussing it with someone yesterday, and he's been trying to sweeten me up with gifts. I can't bear the thought of being sold."

Midra watched as her friend's large brown eyes began to glisten. "Perhaps he has found a good man. A man who will take care of you." She attempted to reason.

Sigrid shook her head, and climbed up on a nearby rock.

"He found a _good_ man for Carrina, and she was dead within a year. My father will find me an old man who will despise me for my temper and spirit. Then he will poison me," Sigrid explained gravely.

Midra joined her on the rock. "You don't know that he _poisoned_ her. She could have been sickening from any number of things, Sigrid. You're imagination is too wild, don't spread your hurtful lies. Carrina's passing was terrible, but sometimes, there is no one to blame for such tragedy."

Again, Sigrid shook her head. "Padric Forsythe poisoned my sister, I am sure of it. How do you think he went through wives so quickly? When he found a new one he wanted, he murdered the one he had."

"He had two wives before her and they both died in childbirth!" Midra rebutted.

Sigrid huffed, and stayed quiet. All she had wanted was for Midra to be on her side, but it seemed that Midra was determined to belittle her problem. Her chest ached at the thought of being forced out of her home to live in a strange house, with a strange man. She did not want her life to be over before it had truly begun. Perhaps her father would understand if she said that she wanted to remain at home and care for him. Which was not entirely true.

"My father will find the man willing to pay the highest price for me, whatever that may be," Sigrid whispered, breaking her silence. "He is a merchant at heart, after all."

At this Midra nodded sadly in agreement.

"He must have found a man from rather far away. If he agreed to marry me, he must not know about my mother and the elf." Sigrid closed her eyes and kicked at the water in frustration.

Suddenly, Midra's excitement was renewed. "I never told you what I saw at the inn!"

Sigrid sat up hastily. "You saw an elf, didn't you!" She guessed.

Midra's shook her head. "A dwarf! I saw a real dwarf! It was unbelievable, he was at my family's inn—He came all the way from Dunland."

For a moment, Sigrid's face fell. She had often dreamt of a whirlwind romance with a handsome elven man. He would have fine features and a noble brow. His silvery blonde hair would be silky to the touch, and his eyes would be soft and compassionate.

Though not what she had hoped for, after her initial disappointment, Sigrid was able to share in Midra's excitement.

"What was he like?" She asked.

"He was short, just shorter than you, I imagine. I had expected him to be stout, but he appeared to be quite strapping actually. He was youngish, for a dwarf. His fist was bigger than your head! He had a beard and a mass of black, wavy hair—He was rather wild looking. His boots were this big 'round!" Midra made a large motion with her hands.

Both of the girls were thrilled by the siting, as they had grown up in the tiny town of Carradale and had seen very little of the world. This dwarf was the only man of another race that Midra had ever encountered.

Sigrid was glad for her friend, but wished she could have caught even a glimpse of him. She stood up on the rock and took position for a dive.

"He was meeting with your father in the lodge, I was listening at the foot of the stairs," Midra continued.

In mid-motion, Sigrid slipped off of the rock and plummeted into the water. Before she had hit the surface, she could already feel herself drowning. _My father is going to sell me to a wild, little dwarf man from a slum in Dunland,_ was all she could think as she sunk deeper into the pond. Her feet touched the bottom, but she made no movement to propel herself upward.

Midra was suddenly beside her, pulling the smaller girl up toward the surface. She watched a dead log floating far off in the water. As she looked on, she imagined that it transformed into Carrina.

When they reached the surface, Midra was screaming her name.

"I'm all right, Midra," she muttered as her friend dragged her out of the water.

"You scared me half to death! I thought you were dead!" Midra yelled, and threw a mudball at Sigrid's shoulder.

"You just told me my father is going to sell me to a dwarf!" Sigrid shouted back.

A smirk spread over Midra's mouth, and before she could contain herself, a roar of laughter erupted from within her.

"You cow! It's not funny!" Sigrid cried, and pelted Midra with a fistful of mud.

The last of her chuckling died down, and Midra explained, "He was offering the dwarf a position at the smithy."

"Bless it..." Sigrid collapsed in relief. Then she abruptly sprang up again. "A dwarf at my father's smithy!" She proclaimed in realization.

Sigrid scrambled to assemble her clothes. After a moment, Midra caught on and hurried into her dress. They rushed back to the Elarith house, still soaked to the skin.

When they reached the back door, they left their wet clothes on the line outside and raced naked up to Sigrid's bedroom. Sigrid rummaged through her chest, searching for a shift that would fit Midra. She tossed her one that Carrina had left behind, and pulled on one of her own.

They slowly approached the window and stared down at the smithy. It was silent, but there was smoke rising from the chimney.

"Perhaps he's gone home," Midra offered.

_Clank._ Sigrid heard the sound of metal on metal and her heart jumped. He was inside, a dwarf, a creature from a faraway land. _Clank._ It came again and she leaned out the window to hear it better. _Clank._ A clear and steady rhythm built between his hammerfalls, and it started to sound like an instrument in Sigrid's mind. _Clank. _Pause._ Clank. _Pause. _Clank. _She could imagine the little man as he worked. The slow rising of the hammer, and the swift fall. She wanted to see him, to study him.

"I'm going down to get a look at him," She told Midra and pulled open her door.

Her father was on the other side. He appeared to be very pleased with himself, until he saw Midra pathetically attempting to cover herself.

Idren gripped his daughter's ear and pulled her into the hallway.

"I told you to send Midra home!" His voice boomed at her.

"Forgive me, papa, she was soaking wet, and it was growing dark," she pleaded and tore herself away from his grasp. "And besides, Midra told me about the new blacksmith. I'm sorry she spoiled your surprise, but it is very exciting nonetheless."

Sigrid saw that she had confused her father, and before he could explain that the blacksmith was not what he wanted to discuss, she continued on about the dwarf.

"I've never seen a dwarf, papa. I fondly look forward to meeting him. Will he be hired on indefinitely? Shall he stay in the smithy as Bowen did?" When she saw that her father had grown irritated, she quickly added, "I hardly believed I could be so excited, but I could not be more pleased. Nothing could ruin it."

At the sound of her father's great sigh, Sigrid knew that there would be no discussion of marriage that night.

"You must not bother him, Sigrid. He is here to work, and he does not need you and Midra terrorizing him. Do not step foot in the smithy, or there will be consequences. If you do as I say, perhaps I shall introduce him to you tomorrow," he proposed.

Sigrid embraced her father tightly. "Thank you, papa. I shall be very good."

"To bed with you, Siri-dear." After a peck on his daughter's head, Idren left in the direction of his study.

Sigrid returned to her room, and Midra immediately began to fret over her.

"All is well, don't upset yourself," she groaned at her worried companion.

"I've never seen your father so upset," Midra said quietly.

Sigrid let out a dry laugh. "That was nothing."

Midra sat at the foot of the bed, and looked toward Sigrid's loom.

"Have you made anything new lately?"

Sigrid smiled and opened her wardrobe to reveal a fine lavender gown with silver-like stitching and embroidery. The flowing sleeves brushed the wooden bottom of the wardrobe.

"It's beautiful!" Midra had often asked Sigrid how a girl with her frivolous nature had the patience to create something so intricate and tedious.

"I've been working on it every once in a while since last year's festival. It is a gift for my dearest friend." Sigrid smiled when Midra's face lit up. "Yes, you."

Midra rolled from the bed and stroked the cotton sleeve. "I couldn't accept it. It is too fine."

"But you must accept it, and you must wear it on the first night of the festival." Sigrid knew that her disposition grated the nerves and sensibilities of others. None more so than Midra, who was often on the receiving end of her acts of mischief. It surprised Sigrid that after all of her nonsense, Midra insisted on remaining her friend—An uncommonly kind and forgiving friend. After enduring their friendship for sixteen years, Sigrid felt that crafting a gown for Midra was the least she could do.

She had never seen Midra look so ecstatic. "May I try it on?"

"I think you had better."

For the next few hours, the girls occupied themselves until it was time to turn in. Midra danced about in her new gown as Sigrid carded cotton on her bed. After that, they told fairy stories and scratched each others back's with the carder.*

Just before they were readying themselves for sleep, Midra sat up and stretched her arms wide when she noticed the clanking hammer had gone quiet. As she looked the left, she saw someone sitting in the window of the smithy.

She bounced to her feet and pointed. "Oh, look!"

Sigrid was instantly beside her, peering down at the window. She observed him as he quickly turned to look at them. Midra fell back in surprise, but Sigrid continued to stare. It was difficult to see him in the darkness, but she clearly saw that he had eyes, a nose, and a mouth. His hair was dark, but she could not tell if it was as wild as Midra claimed. From the distance, he was indistinguishable from a human. When a few moments had passed, she lifted her hand and gently waved down to him. He turned away in a curt gesture, and Sigrid left the window in slight disappointment.

Midra beckoned her back to the bed. "You'll have plenty more opportunities to see him tomorrow. Let us rest now."

* * *

The following day, Midra left for home quite early, waking Sigrid in the process. It was an intolerably hot and muggy morning, and the girls awoke covered in a sheen of sweat. They were surprised to find that Idren was already awake downstairs. Midra said a swift goodbye and headed into town.

"You will not go out into the field today, this weather would be the end of you," her father ordered. "I'll be away until supper. Please look over the ledger sometime today and make sure everything is in order."

Sigrid nodded. Her father's eyesight was not as sharp as it had once been, and she would look over his billing ledger for mistakes or discrepancies.

"Of course, papa. I hope that your day is wonderful." She cocked her head and smiled.

He opened their front door and pointed harshly at his daughter. "Be good, Sigrid."

When the door was shut, she crept to the window to watch her father go. He entered the smithy for a few moments, and was then on his way.

_Clank. _The blacksmith returned to his work. _Clank._ Pause. _Clank._

Sigrid rushed to the pantry and hurriedly began to devour a small bread roll. With the remainder of the roll clenched between her teeth she ran to the water well at the back of the house, carrying a pewter pitcher in her hands.

She filled the pitcher and used her shoulder to push the last of the roll into her mouth. When the pitcher was full, she took a quick swig and wiped off the bread crumbs that had attached themselves to the rim. Then she moved back into the house and assembled the pitcher, a wooden cup and a bread roll on a tray.

She snatched up her arrangement and left through the front door. After a few steps she paused at the door to the smithy. An anxious feeling erupted in the pit of her stomach. It was bred from excitement and fear of punishment, but before she could counsel herself to a wiser course of action, she was rapping on the door.

The blacksmith's work did not stop, and so she knocked harder. When the sounds of work ceased, and Sigrid could hear a shuffling inside, she jumped down to the bottom of the steps to await him.

As the door was pulled open, Sigrid felt her chest throbbing in anticipation. At first she could not see him well in the darkness of the doorway, but he stepped out into the sunlight and she first observed him wiping his massive hands on a rag full of soot.

From her position at the bottom of the small steps, she stared up at him. His stature surprised her, for she had expected all dwarves to be as wide as they were tall, even if Midra had told her otherwise. This dwarf would almost be her height, and she could clearly make out a strong form beneath the damp white tunic that he wore. His forearms were thick and well muscled.

He had a great mane of black, winding curls that rested well below his shoulders. His beard was trimmed short—Hardly the elaborate facial hair she had imagined. His face was smudged with soot, and sweat glistened on his forehead and dripped from his brow. The bright eyes that peered down at her were cold and severe.

He was not at all the potbellied and jolly fellow she and Midra had heard stories about. This made him all the more extraordinary.

Then he spoke in a smooth, low and rumbling voice, "Is there something you require?"

* * *

_*A hand held wire brush used to create cotton punis. Punis are little cylinders of cotton fibers used to create yarn._


End file.
